


If You're Going Through Hell...

by Silver_and_gold_crow



Category: Preacher (Comics), Preacher (TV)
Genre: 1x06, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7427992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_and_gold_crow/pseuds/Silver_and_gold_crow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 1x06<br/>Jesse sent the brightest soul in Annville to the literal depths of hell.<br/>Well, shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Going Through Hell...

**Author's Note:**

> My take on what happens after the last few scenes of 1x06, even though I have no idea what was on the paper or what they'll do to fix it. I'm probably wrong, but that's what fic is for!

Jesse Custer was no stranger to fuck-ups. He had failed in his promise to his father, tarnished the once respected name he held, screwed up a relationship with the only woman he had ever loved, and now this.

This was worse.

The decrepit church walls echoed the words “go to hell” for a moment, then silence fell in the room. It was the type of quiet found in funeral homes or crime scenes. One that encompassed everything it could and delved deep into the bones of those unfortunate enough to have witnessed it. One Jesse had felt time and time again.

“Eugene,” he whispered, although he knew it was useless. The boy was gone and it was all his fault. Jesse, the one Eugene trusted no matter what, the one who had provided solace to a boy who lost everything, had just sent him to the literal depths of hell. 

A slow turn proved nothing of the boy remained except a piece of paper that had probably flown off of a seat in the commotion. With numb arms and legs heavy as lead, Jesse slumped into the nearest pew. His fingers twitched in earnest to formulate a plan to somehow ask Satan for one Eugene Root returned to Annville, Texas at the nearest convenience. Jesse wished more than anything he could dive into the plan and right the worst wrong of his life. Instead, he sat. Surrounded by the silence of the most holy place man could create, Jesse did nothing. A better man might have asked God what to do or prayed for forgiveness. The preacher could not bring himself to trust the Lord.

After what felt like ages of unsettling quiet, Jesse released a litany of curses. He punched the splintered and faded pew in front of him, resulting in a crack that most likely came from his knuckles rather than the wood. He leaned back in the seat, not caring about the blood trickling from his hand. If Eugene was burning in hell, Jesse deserved all the pain he could inflict upon himself. 

Jesse was cynical to put it mildly. As much as he denied it, his faith, both spiritually as well as toward fellow man, was barely present. He had seen the scum of the earth in his time with Tulip and he knew more were around every corner. Eugene had been the exception to that. After his attempted suicide, most of the town declared he would have been better off dead. But the boy at least attempted to keep his spirits up. Every day Eugene was spat upon at best, beaten at worst. But he maintained faith in the townsfolk and even put up with the monster of a father he had. If a saint ever existed, he came in the form of a teenage boy with an arseface.

There were a number of people in his congregation Jesse would have sent to hell without a second thought. Eugene did not qualify.

The changes in sunlight in the room made it apparent Jesse had been wallowing in self-pity for hours. The shadows of the pews grew longer and almost faded into darkness. Jesse took it as a sign to get up and stop moping. Try as he might, he found it impossible to stand. The guilt of it all weighed him down like the world’s largest anchor and fogged his mind like a cigarette. He was useless. 

As the last rays of light dissipated, the sound of a door slamming jolted Jesse from his thoughts. The adrenaline began to flow through his body instantly as he thought of what was coming. The angels, finally agreeing the chainsaw was necessary to end this power hungry madness, perhaps. Or the woman from the diner who had no qualms when it came to murder.

For the first time in hours Jesse moved to pick up the only weapon he could find: a Bible. He sat in ready position, hiding the holy book under his thigh in case a surprise attack was necessary. 

It took him a moment to realize the sounds, now coming from his kitchen, were sung.

As the accent and melody drifted through the woodwork, Jesse released his impromptu weapon with a groan. Cassidy had been the last thing on his mind in the shitstorm of a day. 

Jesse returned to sitting position, mind still foggy and sluggish. The last thing he wanted was to argue with a vaguely psychotic man about clothes or communion wine. If given the choice, he would have stayed there all night.

He wasn’t given the choice.

“Evenin’, Padre! I didn’t know which you’d prefer for dinner, a nice glass of Fireball, perhaps? Or something more refined, like refrigerator coolant,” Cassidy called as he made his way to the door that separated Jesse’s work and home. A bottle was present in his hand, following the tradition of late night binge drinking and bad decision making. 

Rather than give an answer, Jesse turned his attention to the ceiling above him. If he could have asked for a single thing at that moment, it would have been for Cassidy to take the hint and leave him alone for a single goddamn hour. 

“Ah, playing hard to get now, are we? I’m sure a bottle of this will loosen you right up.” 

As Jesse tilted his head, he was met with the glass of whiskey right in front of his eyes. It was tempting; if he was drunk he could pretend this was all a bad dream. But he didn’t deserve that luxury.

He looked up at the man before him, shaking his head. “I can’t drink tonight, Cass. I can’t do shit.”

Jesse expected a snide remark, or a joke on his behalf. Some sort of a “liver can be replaced” remark was typical the few nights he declined a get together of this nature. So when Cassidy’s face fell and the bottle was discarded in the aisle, Jesse didn’t know what to do. He moved down in the pew a bit to make room for Cassidy and angled himself slightly so they could look at one another.

Cassidy sat down, concern written all over his face. “What happened?” he asked. No jokes or taunts, just a plain and simple question. 

“I sent Eugene to hell,” was the only answer Jesse could get out. “He came to me, asking for me to take back whatever Genesis did to make everyone stop hating him. He insisted it was wrong. I wasn’t wrong Cass! The boy’s life was a living hell and I… I,” he couldn’t finish. All he could do was put his head in his hands and let out a muffled scream of agony. 

Before he knew it, one of Cassidy’s hands was gently on his bicep while the other found its way to his knee. Jesse pulled himself out of his hands, slowly turning his eyes toward the man comforting him. His mind still raced with the thought of what he had done and the monster he was slowly becoming, but the touch calmed his nerves ever so slightly.

For a minute there was quiet. It was the different sort of silence than the one after Eugene had vanished. This one contained an air of understanding and signaled he was safe. Although he screwed up, Cassidy was there for him.

When the silence was broken, it was by Cassidy. “You really fucked this one up, Jesse. And believe me when I say I’ve seen a lot of things go to absolute hell, no pun intended, in my day.” If looks could kill, the glare Jesse shot him would have been the end, immortal or not. He brushed it off, holding up a finger. “Now, now, let me finish. This is bad. This is worse than shit hitting the metaphorical fan bad. But I know you, Padre. You’ve got a fightin’ Irish spirit that either makes you a saint or lands you in the grave. And you’ve come this far so it obviously isn’t gonna be the death of you.”

Jesse groaned and broke away from Cassidy’s touch to look him square in the eye. “I don’t give a shit about spirit or how my life is going. Just stop, alright.” He sulked back in his previous position and gave Cassidy the cold shoulder. They sat together for a minute, Cassidy squirming uncomfortably.

Cassidy broke first, voice softer than it had ever been. “When we first sat down and talked, that night in the jail, I told you I didn’t have a hope in the world and was doing fan-fucking-tastic, didn’t I?” When Jesse gave no response, he continued. “That was the honest to God truth. I drifted from place to place and did just fine. Then you came along, Jess. I still ain’t got a lot in life and I still don’t care. But I have something to believe in now, besides a good ol’ shot of heroin. I believe in you.” 

Jesse scoffed and turned to him. “Why do you have any sort of faith in me,” he whispered in a raspy tone. “I’m not a good man. I’ve done things you can’t imagine and can’t even pretend to be a decent person. No one should believe in me.”

“It isn’t about being a good man. It isn’t about morality or pride or any of the shit they feed you in fairytales. You have a purpose in life, Jesse. It sure as hell isn’t to serve God or be the messenger of Christ, but I know it’s something. You took me in, so it must be true, right?” Cassidy supplied a wink.

For the first time in what felt like years Jesse chuckled. “If I can put up with you for this long I must have a higher purpose, is that it?” 

“You bet your arse it is. Now come on, we’re going to go inside, get absolutely knackered, and figure this out in the morning.” Cassidy helpfully supplied a hand to Jesse and helped him up. They both began walking toward the door when a crinkle sounded from underfoot. 

Cassidy bent down and picked up the object. He read the paper once, then twice before handing it to Jesse with an ear to ear grin.

“Stop the presses, Padre. I have an idea.”


End file.
